Best Laid Plans

by Lauren Blakely

  He sets a hand on his stomach, laughing. “Do you actually think I don’t know that you have it bad for her?”

  As a matter of fact, I was hoping so.

  “I don’t have it bad,” I deny, even though he’s as right as the Earth rotating around the sun.

  “You can lie to yourself, buddy. But I’m not fooled. You should do something about it.”

  I sigh as we turn the corner. I could keep up the ruse, but he’s already seen through me. What’s the point in pretending? “Fine. Fine. You win.”

  He pumps a fist. “Called it. Even though it was patently fucking obvious, Twenty-Three,” he says, using his nickname for me, my number when I played pro ball.

  “Like wearing-a-billboard obvious?”

  He nods several times. “But that’s because I know your style. Maybe it’s not obvious to her. Which brings me back to closing the deal. Are you or aren’t you going to let the woman know you have a thing for her?”

  I drag a hand through my hair. “I’d like to. But then what if it goes south?”

  “South? The direction most relationships go?”

  I laugh mirthlessly. “Yes. Isn’t that the truth?”

  “Sure seems to be.”

  “Hell, I went out with a woman who works at the retirement home, and now I get the cold shoulder from her when I go to visit my pops. I was a gentleman too. I made my intentions clear from the start. Nothing serious. But she wanted more, and now she scowls at me.”

  “You can withstand a scowl, surely?”

  “Yeah, I can handle scowls.” I take a deep breath. “But I don’t want Arden to scowl, you get me?”

  Shaw nods, and we stop at his blue pickup truck, parked near the station. “I hear ya. Some women are special. You don’t want that to happen with your bowling buddy. But look at what happened to your major league career. You went for it, and you had no regrets, Twenty-Three.”

  I was recruited out of college by the Texas Rangers and played minor league ball for three seasons with that organization. A relief pitcher with a killer curveball, I was called up to the majors and played there for one glorious season before my shoulder fried like a circuit board left in the sun.

  Retirement came swift and early, but I didn’t let it get me down. I had choices. I’d parked all my major league money in a mutual fund so I could let it grow. I had no interest in lamenting what didn’t happen. I wasn’t going to be that guy clinging to one great year and never moving on. I’ve seen Eastbound and Down, thank you very much. And while Danny McBride is funny as fuck, there was no way I would become a washed-up baller clawing my way back to the pitcher’s mound. Instead, I moved on, since the world only spins forward.

  When I was a kid and my pops asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always had two answers—ballplayer and a fireman.

  I always wanted both.

  I’d done all I could on the first one, saved some good money from that year in the show, and it was time to head into career number two.

  I’ve had no regrets—I’ve loved being a firefighter just as much.

  Don’t look back.

  Take your chances.

  Go for it.

  I need to fucking go for it with Arden, even if it means blowing out my shoulder.

  The trouble is, in this analogy the shoulder is our friendship, and I honestly don’t want to see it blow up.

  But that’s the chance I have to take.

  She’s the woman I can’t get out of my head.

  She’s no Darla. She’s no hairstylist. She’s the one I want for more than a one-and-done date. I want more than a casual thing with her.

  I want all in.

  “Pops, when you met Nana, did you know right away you wanted to take her out?”

  My grandpa scrunches his forehead like it hurts him to think. In some ways, I suppose it does.

  “I knew I wanted her to type memos for me,” he says, then winks, and that makes me happy, his awareness.

  I laugh, patting his arm. “You old fox, falling for your secretary.”

  He shrugs as if to say what can you do? “Emily could write memos like nobody’s business, Gabe.”

  I smile, loving days like today when he’s here, fully present, remembering. “So you went for it?”

  “Do I look like a fool?”

  “No, sir. You do not.”

  Nor do I want to look like one.

  Tonight, I resolve to bowl a game with the guys like I promised, find a way to get Arden the hell out of the bowling alley, and let her know I want to take her out.

  Again and again.

  When I exit Pops’s suite, I glance down the hall, peering left and right. I breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see Darla.

  But that’s stupid.

  It’s not like she’s going to ambush me with tears or rage. Hell, we went on one date. That was all. Sure, she wanted another and said as much, but I wasn’t feeling it, so I said thanks but no thanks.

  I have to deal with running into her, if it happens.

  And when I reach the main floor, it does. She’s turning the corner, heading straight toward me.

  She lifts her chin proudly. “Hello, Gabe.”

  “Hello, Darla.”

  She walks past me, looking straight ahead with a cold, stony-faced, I-don’t-even-notice-you stare, and I make my way to the parking lot, ready to move on. No more ladies’ man.

  I’d like to be a one-woman man.

  12

  Arden

  I survey the scene at Pin-Up Lanes. Retro tunes play overhead, and a stream of people smile and toast, having a good time.

  My friend Finley from the next town over is here, and she and her new guy Tom are bowling. I stroll by her lane, tapping her on the shoulder after she finishes her turn.

  “Hey, you. How’s your show going?” Finley’s a TV comedy writer.

  “I have more than one hundred viewers, so I'd say it’s going better than my last show,” she says, her light blue eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, please. I’m sure you had more than that.”

  “I wouldn't be too sure about that,” she says dryly.

  “Well, I’m glad the new one is doing better then.” I tip my forehead in Tom’s direction. “And how’s the new man?”

  Her grin is infectious. “He makes me laugh and he makes me happy. And, well, I kind of can’t take my hands off him.”

  I smile. “I suppose that’s how it should be.”

  “I’m a big advocate of wanting to get your hands on the man you like.”

  We catch up briefly on her life, when Tom comes over after taking his turn. He pecks a kiss on her cheek and says hello.

  “You guys look like you’re having fun, so I’ll let you keep it up.”

  I wander past the crowds, and find Vanessa at the bar.

  “I’d say your Celebrate Summer Party is a huge hit,” I tell Vanessa from my perch at the bar, as I scan the crowd for Gabe. My purse is in Vanessa’s back room. My list is tucked safely inside a book in the bag. My plan is solid.

  “Thank you. I’m pretty damn proud of this event, myself. Can’t believe I pulled it off.”

  “I can. You’re kickass at everything you do. Do I need to remind you of how we used to wander past this bowling alley when it was that dilapidated, lamely named ‘County Lanes’? It smelled like bacon grease and half the lanes were broken, and you said, ‘I’m going to fix that up and add some style.’”

  Vanessa laughs, and I swear the memory of her determined teenage self flickers in her eyes. “I loved bowling and retro clothes as a kid. I guess it just worked out.”

  “It didn’t just work out. You made it happen.”

  She lifts a glass and toasts. “To us. The Kickass Girls of Lucky Falls,” she says, using the name we bestowed on our trio when we were younger. “Well, minus one, but Perri’s surely out kicking ass and taking names.”

  “And she’s doing that literally,” I say, raising my Riesling and clinking it to Vanessa’s water gla
ss.

  I take a drink of the crisp wine. I’ve deemed it the ideal pairing for going out on a limb. It’s fresh and bright, with an effervescent aftertaste. It’s ready to show off its flavors.

  I’m ready too.

  Tonight is a perfect night for a proposal. Gabe has finished his shift, he’s relaxed, and we’ve already planned to play a game or two here at the event. The Celebrate Summer fundraiser benefits the first responders in the county—the police, firefighters, and paramedics who have been tasked with harder than normal work thanks to the fires that raged for days in vineyards and across once lush, rolling green hills. That’s why the bowling alley, complete with karaoke bar, darts, pool tables, and twenty lanes, is stuffed to the gills. The first responders here have earned so much well-deserved support.

  “You can’t beat the view tonight,” Vanessa says, her eyes drifting over the crowd and finding the pack of men from the station at lane twenty, including Gabe, Jackson, Charlie, and Perri’s brother, Shaw. Vanessa’s gaze lingers on Shaw for a beat longer than usual. Maybe two beats longer, come to think of it.

  I shoot her a curious stare. “Are you checking out the Shaw view?”

  She scoffs then grabs a glass of water and downs a gulp. “No way. I was just talking about all of them. They’re all the reason fireman calendars and fireman fantasies exist, right?”

  I decide to let the Shaw issue go for tonight—I don’t need to give her the inquisition on a stare that lasted a little longer than usual. “We do seem to possess an embarrassment of riches in the hot fireman department. I bet Guinness World Records would like to know what we’ve accomplished in our little town.”

  She wiggles her dark eyebrows and motions for me to inch closer as the music shifts to Elvis Presley. “Want to know why we have so many hotties here?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “I planted seeds. Hot fireman seeds.”

  “And now they grow from the fields,” I say, laughing, as Gabe raises a hand from across the alley and waves at me.

  My stomach flips.

  Stupid stomach.

  It’s just a wave.

  Why the hell is my stomach flipping?

  I wave back, rehearsing the words that I want to say to him later. I’ve mapped it all out.

  So I have this idea . . .

  I’d like to ask for your help . . .

  How would you feel about doing . . .?

  Vanessa drums her fingers on the bar. “And now I can ask you the same question. Are you checking out the view of Gabe? Looks like you’re giving him a very thorough undressing right now.”

  I snap my gaze away from the hottie. I mean, my friend. My friend. Only my friend. “I am not disrobing him.”

  Vanessa rolls her brown eyes. “You kill me, girl. I love how you deny it.” She raises her pitch, imitating me, evidently. “Oh, we’re just friends. Oh, he’s my bowling partner.” She snorts and goes back to her own voice. “More like the man you’ve been hanging out with for the last year, secretly staring at and imagining naked the whole time.”

  “I do not secretly stare at him.” Sure, Gabe is so handsome it’s nearly criminal, and admittedly, I have experienced a fair share of tingles and shivers when he’s accidentally touched me. But our friendship is what matters most.

  “True. You don’t secretly stare. You stare at him in public.”

  “I don’t do that at all. I’m simply attentive. To all my friends.”

  She snorts. “That’s a good one.”

  “But it’s true,” I say, perhaps to remind myself of my plan.

  I’m going to ask him for help as a friend, and only as a friend. I made a promise to myself the day David ditched me—no more dalliances with unworthy men. Not that Gabe is unworthy, but he does like the ladies, and I don’t want to be someone’s “nice” comparison point ever again. But I very much want to know what naughty things I might like, and I want to learn that without making a fool of myself when I have no idea what goes where in what position, or even what to say to get myself in that position in the first place. But I haven’t asked Gabe yet, so I don’t want to say a word to anyone else.

  Besides, there’s nothing to share. This is only a little exercise between pals. “Just because we hang out doesn't mean we’re going to do anything more. A man and a woman can be friends, thank you very much.”

  Vanessa sets her glass on the bar. “You might see it that way, but he’s always looking at you like he wants you.”

  I startle at her comment, my skin buzzing, betraying my brain. But I keep my focus tight. There is no room for a Gabe attraction in my life. None at all. “You’re crazy. He doesn’t look at me like that.”

  “You’re crazy, because yes, he does.”

  I shake my head, wishing the idea didn’t delight some part of me. “We’re friends. It’s not like that.”

  “That’s why your cheeks are all red and flushed.”

  I raise a hand to touch my cheek. Maybe it’s a little warm in here. “I can be friends with a good-looking man and not jump his bones.”

  “If you insist.” She nods toward the other side of the bar. “I need to go check on the patrons.”

  “Do you mind if I pop into your back room?” I ask. “I need to have a private conversation with someone.”

  She arches a curious brow. “And who would that be?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, trying to be light.

  Vanessa crosses her arms. “No. You can’t borrow my back room.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Why not?”

  “Because friends don’t keep secrets about who they’re hosting private meetings with in other friends’ back rooms.”

  “Fine.” I sigh. “It’s Gabe. Okay?”

  She smirks, giving me the most knowing smile she’s ever given me. “Are you going to plant hot fireman seeds with him?”

  I decide to deflect with wordplay. “If anyone would be planting seeds, I’d think it’d be him.”

  Her jaw drops.

  “But the answer is no. I just need to talk to him about something. I’ll update you later.”

  She shoots me a sharp stare. “You better. Use of my back room includes giving me a detailed briefing.”

  “I promise.”

  “Then my back room is your back room.”

  13

  Arden

  I finish my go-out-on-a-limb Riesling, and when Gabe is done with his frame, he strides over and parks himself on the stool next to mine. My stomach flip-flops, and my palms are clammy. I need to make my request soon, otherwise it’ll nag at me all night.

  “Hey, East. What’s cooking? Did you save a game for me?”

  “Always.” But I don’t want to play a game right now. I want to make my pitch, and I don’t want to wait another second. I’ve been saying the words in my head all day. “But first, do you have a second to chat privately?”

  Worry creases his brow. “Sure. Everything okay?”

  “Absolutely.” I smile, keeping the mood light and easy, or so I hope.

  We head to the back room, where filing cabinets line the walls next to a desk stacked with papers. Across from us is a green leather couch. I don’t sit. I don’t want to delay. I swallow, steeling myself as I find my courage and screw it to the sticking point. Like the ladies in the book club. Ask for what you want.

  I reach into my bag, take out a book, and show it to him. Though I read several the other night, this one is the closest to what I want.

  Fifty Ways to Spice Up Your Love Life.

  “Is this for me?” His expression is curious, lips quirked up in a question.

  My throat is dry. I shake my head. “It’s for me.”

  Confusion flickers across his blue eyes. “Okayyyyy.”

  I grip the book hard. “I have this idea that I want to try some spices.”

  “Are you seeing someone you want to get spicy with?” It sounds like the words taste like bitter paprika to him.

  “No.” This is harder than I thought. Because of what Vanessa said. Bec
ause Gabe is so handsome, so kind, so easy that a part of me keeps thinking how much I want to try all these things with him. To feel what might come next after the little shivers up my spine.

  Only that’s not what I’m asking.

  I don’t want a typical hands-on lesson in seduction. Please. That’d ruin our friendship, and our friendship means the world to me. I simply won’t risk it.

  But we don’t need to get naked for me to learn. You don’t practice CPR on a real person. You do it on a dummy. We don’t need to walk the walk.

  He can spank me with my jeans on.

  He can pull my hair on my front porch.

  He can bite my neck without it leading to anything more than information.

  Intel.

  That way we stay friends.

  Besides, he’s not playing the same long game I am. He’s a short-term guy, and I respect that, but I’m a long-term kind of woman.

  I dig down deep. “I’d like to ask for your help.” Taking a breath, I pause before I lay it all on the line. “I’m not terribly experienced in the bedroom, but I’m incredibly curious, and I’d really like to know if being tied up, taken over the back of the sofa, stopping for an impromptu hookup while out for a drive, making out in an elevator, or having my hair pulled so hard I see stars is my cup of tea. How would you feel about doing some research with me? Say, over the next week?”

  14

  Gabe

  Come again?

  Did she say what I think she said?

  As in, the answer to all my prayers?

  I have half a mind to punch the sky and do a victory strut.

  But one, I’m not an asshole.

  Two, I’m not simply trying to get in her pants. I want to get under her skin, like she’s under mine.

  But pants . . . pants are a good start.

  And it’s getting tight in mine.

  I scratch my jaw. Part my lips. Try to speak. But my throat is dry. “What?” It’s all I can manage to say, and it comes out like a scratch.